Life As You Now Live It
by BonitaBreezy
Summary: Clint Barton is 17 when he sells his soul to the devil. It's possible that he really didn't understand the effect that decision would have on his life. Clintcoulson


_July 1994_

The man appeared rather suddenly.

Clint had glanced at Barney's face, just to make sure that he was alright, and when he'd looked back, the man had been standing there.

He was standing a few paces back from them, wearing an expensive-looking suit and a bland expression. He was middle-aged with mouse-brown hair and calm blue eyes, and Clint thought he'd look more at home in a bank than he did at a dusty crossroads in the middle of nowhere Iowa, if not for the small horns protruding from his forehead. He gave off a vibe that made the hairs on the back of Clint's neck stand up.

"Barney," he muttered, making his brother look up in surprise. "I think it worked."

"Holy shit," Barney breathed. "It did work. I didn't just…"

"Yes, yes," the man spoke up, sounding bored. "It worked, I'm here. Now what can I do for you?"

"God, Clint, I'm sorry," Barney muttered, and Clint looked at him in confusion.

Sure, he hadn't thought that they'd actually be able to summon a demon, because he didn't actually believe in them, but he'd agreed to come all the same. He still wasn't entirely convinced that it wasn't just some elaborate prank that Barney was pulling.

But the cancer wasn't a prank.

He'd gone to the hospital with Barney after he'd developed the huge bump under his knee that just wouldn't go away, and he'd sat there, grim-faced, beside his big brother as they told him that he had cancer, a tumor, and the leg would need to be amputated to save his life.

An amputated leg meant medical bills they couldn't pay for, and losing their place in Carson's Carnival of Travelling Wonders. Those who don't work, don't eat, and Barney couldn't do the striking and mucking with just one leg.

They'd spent the last few weeks trying to figure out what to do, and earlier that evening Barney had come to him with an excited whisper about making deals with demons and saving his leg. Clint had been skeptical, but also desperate enough to try anything, and he'd agreed to go.

And it had worked, so why was Barney apologizing?

"I have cancer," Barney told the demon, the words spilling out of his mouth like a flood that he couldn't hold back.

"Yes, very tragic," the demon responded, arching an eyebrow. "And what do you want me to do about that?"

"Make it go away," Barney spat back, bristling at the demon's tone. He grabbed a hold of Clint's elbow, squeezing so hard it hurt, but Clint didn't complain. "I give you a soul and you give me what I want, isn't that how this works?"

"Well, yes, generally," the man said. "But you don't have a soul to give me."

"What?" Clint gasped before he could stop himself, and then he snapped his mouth shut when the demon turned to look at him. He narrowed his eyes and tilted his head slightly at Clint, like he'd never seen anything like him before. He looked away quickly after that and then pulled a small black book out of the breast pocket of his suit. The demon idly licked his finger and then flipped rapidly through more pages than the small volume should have been able to hold before he came to a stop with a smile, satisfied smile.

"Yes, right here," he said. "Charles Bernard Barton, age 10, made a deal June 16th, 1983. Soul due in 2003." He snapped the little book shut and tucked it away in his pocket. "You already traded your soul in exchange for the death of your father."

Clint couldn't help the small gasp the escaped him at the revelation. Barney had never seemed surprised at their parents' death, but Clint had always thought it was because he was so angry and bitter at their father that he couldn't feel anything else about it.

"And you killed my mother, too," Barney snarled, his fingers tightening even more on Clint's arm.

"Well, you know how things go. Wrong place, wrong time," the demon said, shrugging. "And please, it's not as if I killed her myself. We just make the deals. Now, since you have nothing to offer me, I must be going. Thanks so much for wasting my time."

"Wait!" Barney called, his voice desperate and more scared than Clint had ever heard it. Barney jerked him forward, pushing Clint in front of him and towards the demon, who was looking more and more annoyed by the second. "I brought you his soul!"

"What?" Clint demanded, his voice sounding more like a shriek than he'd ever care to admit. No wonder he'd been apologizing. He'd known that he didn't have any bargaining chips, so he'd planned all along to sell Clint's soul instead.

"His soul is not yours to sell," the demon snapped, and Barney shoved Clint away from him with a harsh, bitter cry. Clint stumbled forward, right into the demon, who caught him gently at the elbows and kept him from bowling them both over. As soon as he was balanced on his feet, Clint pulled away from his touch, backing up like contact alone would damn him.

"You said I'd get twenty years!" Barney howled. "I have nine left, you son of a bitch!"

"I said no such thing," the man sniffed, slipping his hands into his pockets. "I didn't make your deal. And if Melinda promised you twenty years, that means she won't come for your soul until those twenty years are up, unless you happen to die first. If you _do_ happen to die before that, that's your own problem. We aren't your guardian angels, Mr. Barton."

Clint watched them glare at each other, his heart racing in his chest. Barney was going to die. He was going to die from cancer or he was going to lose his leg and his job and eventually die from that. There was no way around it. He still had nine years to live. Clint could give him those years.

"I'll do it," Clint said, before he really even knew what he was doing. Barney just kept yelling, but the demon turned to look at Clint, his eyes again narrowed like he just wasn't sure what to make of him. "Barney, shut up. I said I'll do it."

Barney went silent as he turned to stare at Clint with his jaw dropped.

"What?" he asked, his voice hoarse from screaming.

"I said I'd do it," Clint said again, annoyed at having to repeat himself. "Get rid of his cancer and in twenty years you can have my soul."

The demon frowned at him for a long moment, and Clint oddly felt like a scolded child. Finally, though, he flicked his eyes away from Clint's to give Barney a disgusted look.

"Are you sure?" he asked, and Clint was sure he was imagining the way his voice had gentled just slightly.

"I'm sure," Clint said.

"Okay, then," the demon said, the whole of his eyes turning red like blood. "Let's make a deal."

Clint took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and stared unflinchingly into those red eyes. He was terrified, but he wasn't going to go into this sniveling like a baby. Twenty years was a long time, and he was saving his brother, even though he wasn't really sure Barney deserved it. He could feel bruises forming on his arm where Barney had dug his fingers in.

"So how do we do this?" he asked as the demon faced him fully. "Do we shake on it? Make a blood pact or something?"

The demon's lips twitched upward slightly, like he was fighting back a smile. "No," he said. "The deal is sealed with a kiss."

"What, seriously?" Clint asked, glancing at Barney for confirmation. But Barney refused to look at him. Ungrateful asshole.

"Seriously," the demon responded, and then, before Clint could protest anymore, he swooped in and kissed Clint firmly on the lips. Clint hardly had time to draw in a surprised breath before he was pulling away.

"The deal is done, then," he said, gesturing at Barney, who had already yanked up his pant leg to inspect his knee. Surely enough, the large tumor that had been protruding from his skin underneath his knee was gone, leaving no signs that it had ever been there at all.

"That's it?" Clint demanded. "He's got no cancer, it won't come back?"

"Well, you never said you didn't want it to come back," the demon started, and Clint opened his mouth to protest in outrage, "but it won't."

Clint stared at him suspiciously, and the demon rolled his eyes and nodded.

"That's it," he said. "It was good doing business with you boys. I'll see you in twenty years, Clint Barton."

He disappeared between the space of a breath, as quickly as he'd come. The Barton brothers were left standing in the middle of a dusty crossroads on a humid summer night, sure of their futures in a way that most people never would be.

_December 2002_

Despite his parting words, Clint Barton saw the demon again less than ten years after he'd made the deal. Clint had been sitting in a Costa Coffee in Prague waiting for contact from a client when he'd sat down across from him with a cheerful red carry-out cup that looked like Santa Claus and a lemon tart.

While Clint was busy wondering if shooting him in the face would do any good, he tucked a napkin into his shirt collar to protect his suit, dug his fork into the tart, took a bite, and let out a pleased moan, his eyelashes fluttering just slightly in pleasure. It was a more attractive sight than Clint cared to admit, and he focused his energy on glaring so that he wouldn't shift around in his seat.

"I've still got…" he started to argue, when it seemed like the demon wasn't going to say anything.

"Eleven years, yes, I know," he said, like it was a totally normal conversation between two friends who often met up and had coffee together. "I was just trading a man's soul for fame and riches and I noticed you were nearby, so I thought I'd pop by to see how you were doing. Besides, I just can't resist a good lemon tart. Bite?"

He offered his fork, loaded with a large bite of lemon tart, to Clint and perked up his eyebrows in question.

"No," Clint said, confused, watching as the demon shrugged and popped the bite into his mouth, making satisfied noises as he did so. He didn't really know what to say, and he didn't understand why no one seemed to notice that the man sitting across from him hand horns sticking out of his forehead. They were short, sure, but pretty much impossible to miss.

"People see what I want them to see," the demon answered when Clint asked. "I can't very well go waltzing into coffee shops looking like I've shot straight out of hell, can I? There'd be mass hysteria."

"Well...yeah, I guess," Clint said. "Why do I see them, then?"

"Well, I didn't think they'd bother you, since you know what I am. Does it?"

"Not really," Clint admitted. Honestly he kind of wanted to touch them, just to see what they felt like.

"Well then," the demon said, like it was settled.

They sat quietly for a few more minutes before the demon spoke again. "Your brother's time is up in a few months," he said. "Where is he? Out duping someone else into selling their soul for him? Because it won't work."

"I wouldn't know," Clint said through clenched teeth, staring moodily out the window. "I haven't seen him since the night I sold my soul to save his life."

"Really?" the demon asked, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise.

"Really," Clint grumbled. "I woke up in the morning and he was gone. Never said goodbye, didn't leave a note, just disappeared."

"How ungrateful," the demon remarked.

"I know, right?" Clint scoffed. "You'd think that after I sold my fucking soul to a low-life _demon_ for him…"

"Well, there's no need to be rude," the demon sniffed. "And who are you calling a low-life, Circus Boy? I'll have you know that I am the King of the Crossroads."

"Oh, who knew I was in the presence of royalty," Clint snarked sarcastically. "I'll have to practice my curtsy."

"Yes, do that, I'd certainly like to see it," the demon snarked back, looking far too amused and cheerful for what he was.

"Please, like I'm going to curtsy to you, King Demon-"

"-Phil-"

"-you show up here after...what?"

"My name is Phil," the demon said. "I'd prefer you call me that over King Demon."

"Your name is Phil?" Clint asked incredulously.

"Yes," the demon-Phil-said, like he didn't understand why Clint was having such a hard time with this.

"What kind of name is Phil for a demon?" he demanded.

"Well, I wasn't always a demon," Phil answered, rolling his eyes. "I was human once, with a human mother, and she thought Phillip was a perfectly respectable name."

"Well, I mean…" Clint said uncomfortably, aware that maybe he was being offensive and not really sure why he cared so much about it. "It's a very nice name…"

"Thank you," Phil said, and he cracked a smile like he was completely aware of Clint's inner turmoil and he thought it was hilarious. "Anyway, your client is going to be here in a few minutes, so I should go. He's going to try to cheat you on the money, by the way, so I'd nip that right in the bud if I were you. By the way, I appreciate the poeticism of selling your soul and then becoming an assassin."

"Yeah, well," Clint muttered. "I'm going to hell anyway."

"And yet you still don't kill children or innocents," Phil said thoughtfully, and before Clint could ask him how he knew that, he was gone.

_March 2005_

Clint felt eyes on him before he actually heard anyone approaching, and he twisted out of his position and to his feet on instinct. He already had his gun leveled and ready to fire by the time he realized that it was Phil-the-Demon-King standing behind him. He looked the same as he always did, though it had been nearly three years since Clint had last saw him. Clint couldn't say the same for himself.

By the time he'd reached twenty-seven years old, he'd been shot, stabbed, and had at least half his bones broken, some of them more than once. When it rained his left knee ached, like a snide reminder of a humid summer night where he'd made a deal that he hadn't really understood the consequences of. He'd lost most of his hearing as a result of an explosion in 2003, and a few of his teeth were fakes, the originals having been punched out.

He'd gotten on the wrong sides of too many people, due to people he'd killed as well as people he'd refused to kill. He spent every night in a different bed, every week in a different city, constantly moving in order to avoid getting too comfortable and waking up with a gun in his face. He had nowhere safe to go, no one he knew he could trust, and the list of people he could take jobs from was slowly but surely shrinking.

To put it frankly, he felt like shit pretty much constantly. But that didn't mean that he was just going to lay down and die.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded, glaring distrustfully and trying not to worry about his mark. If he missed this opportunity to take him down, he'd have a hell of a hard time getting such a good, open shot again. He had too few clients left to get on the bad sides of any of them.

"I just thought it would be interesting to watch you work," Phil said nonchalantly. Clint didn't buy it for a minute.

"Oh yeah?" he asked, slipping his gun back into the holster on his thigh and settling back down into position behind his rifle. Clint didn't know much about demons, but he was pretty sure that shooting him would do jack shit. Not that he wouldn't try, if it came down to that, but for now he was going to trust that Phil was just there to remind him of his history of bad decision-making.

"You don't believe me?" Phil asked mildly.

"Nope," Clint answered, scanning the people milling about the shopping center down below them in search of his mark.

"What, you don't trust me?"

"You're a demon who barters for souls with children," Clint said. No explanation needed.

"You were seventeen," Phil said, his voice waspish. "I hardly would call that a child. Just because you regret saving your brother's life…"

"Fuck you," Clint snapped tearing his eyes away from the crowd to glare at Phil. "Seriously, _fuck you_. I don't regret saving Barney's life, okay? Am I pissed that he fucked me over and I never saw him again? Yeah, I really am. But you take me back to that night right now and I'd do it all over again."

Phil stared at him with that inscrutable look again, his blue eyes slightly narrowed and his head cocked minutely to the side. He stared like he was trying to read Clint's mind, and Clint glared angrily back at him, defiant and probably far too self-righteous for someone who had sold his soul to the devil. Finally, Phil shook his head and a small smile broke over his face.

"I don't know that I'll ever understand you, Clint Barton. But you certainly are something." The admiration in Phil's voice was clear, and Clint found himself inwardly preening about it. He was definitely in serious need of some human contact and affection if he was practically a blushing virgin at the idea of a demon liking him.

He turned away again, at first just so that he could stop looking at Phil looking at him, and then because he remembered he was supposed to be shooting someone. He laid back down in front of his rifle again and started searching for his mark while he let his body relax and settle into sniper mode.

It was a little hard to do with Phil's eyes on him, but he managed.

Phil stayed quiet as he waited, but he didn't leave. Instead, he sat on the ground next to him, not seeming to notice that he was getting all sorts of roof-debris all over his nice suit. He sat close, close enough that Clint could feel his unnatural heat radiating against his side. Something about having Phil's undivided attention on him while he waited around to blow someone's brains out was kind of arousing, and he hated himself for even thinking it. It wasn't like he got off on killing people, but something more to do with Phil's obvious appreciation of something about him.

It had clearly been way too long since he'd gotten laid.

Mercifully, his mark appeared rather suddenly out of a shop, laughing with one of his bodyguards and sipping from a bottle of Perrier. Clint lined up his shot and trailed him for a few seconds, and then released his breath slowly and pulled the trigger. He'd just barely seen the neat red hole appear just above his mark's left ear before he was pulling back from the edge of the rooftop and breaking down his rifle.

"That was an amazing shot," Phil commented, still sitting and watching as Clint fit the rifle carefully into it's case, which looked like it should house a guitar.

"Yeah, thanks," Clint said. "That's me, the Amazing Hawkeye. Once I shot targets, now I shoot mobsters and politicians."

He hurried down the roof-access staircase and made his way down towards the ground floor, keeping his hood up, his head down, and his face away from the security cameras. Phil ambled along behind him at a leisurely pace, but no matter how fast Clint went, he never seemed to get left behind.

"Why are you really here?" Clint demanded, once he'd slipped out the back door and blended into a crowded street, Phil at his side.

"That man you just killed owed me his soul," Phil admitted. "I came to collect it."

"So what, you just know when someone is going to die?" Clint demanded incredulously, turning down a side street and then onto another busy one.

"Well, we do work closely with the Dead and Dying office," Phil shrugged. "The paperwork is really the key component. Let me tell you, it is a mess and a half to sort out messed up paperwork where the dead are involved. We don't know if the person's dead or not, and if he is do we get his soul or do they get it upstairs, and of course all the while the soul is hanging out in purgatory while we try to sort it out and then they just don't stop complaining about how long they had to wait while we sorted the issue out, as if it isn't their own damn fault half the time…"

"Wait," Clint interrupted him, aware that he'd drawn to a dead stop in the middle of the sidewalk to stare at his companion. "You talk about heaven and hell and death like it's some sort of huge government organization."

"Well, they're all separate entities, really," Phil said.

"I thought hell was supposed to be all fire and brimstone and torture!" Clint exclaimed, drawing the curious looks of a few passers-by. He glared at them and grabbed Phil's arm, making him start walking again.

"Oh, well it used to be," Phil said, frowning like the mere thought was distasteful. "But it was all so disorganized and pointless. People just spent all their time down there shrieking and moaning and being subjected to their worst nightmares. It was a huge waste of potential."

"Okay," Clint said, still not sure if Phil was just fucking with him or not. "So then now it's what? A giant bureaucratic office?"

"More corporate, really," Phil shrugged. "The way my demons and I collect souls is the way it used to be done. We go out, we make deals with the people who are looking for them. But since King Nick took power, it's been more about subterfuge…"

"I thought you were the King," Clint interrupted. He hated to admit it, but he was actually kind of fascinated with how the whole thing worked. Perhaps it wouldn't be so terrible as he'd been imagining. Maybe Barney wasn't burning in a pit right now, but rather doing desk work. Though, if Barney was still the same as he had been when they were kids, he'd probably rather be burning in a pit.

"I'm King of the Crossroads," Phil explained. "It's an old title, really, from before the big change, but I kept it for the power it yields. Nick is the King of Hell."

"So...you're saying Satan's real name is Nick?"

"Yep," Phil answered, popping the 'p'.

"You're just fucking with me right now, aren't you?" Clint asked, side-eyeing him suspiciously.

"I'm really not," Phil promised him. He flashed Clint a grin that made his eyes crinkle, and Clint almost felt like he'd had the breath knocked out of him. He wasn't allowed to find the demon who'd bought his soul attractive. He just wasn't.

"You want to get some lunch and I'll explain a little more?" Phil asked, gesturing at a little cafe they were passing.

"Well," Clint said, drawing out the word out while he deliberated. On the one hand, he did want to know more. On the other hand, he had just shot a guy in the head a few blocks away and his instincts were screaming at him to get gone.

"I won't let anything happen to you," Phil promised, and Clint wondered if he could read minds or if he was just very perceptive.

"Don't you have a soul to collect?" he asked.

"I already got it," Phil assured him, even though he'd been with Clint the whole time. "Lunch?"

"Yeah, I guess," Clint answered as Phil steered him into a seat at one of the umbrella-covered tables outside the cafe. A waiter appeared next to their table as if he'd been summoned and gave them menus. Phil cracked his open and started perusing the pages with a serious look on his face, and Clint was struck rather suddenly at how normal he seemed. The guy was a demon who collected souls and called Satan "Nick", but he was also kind of sarcastic and he always wore suits and he obviously enjoyed eating. Clint thought he could actually really like Phil, if not for the soul part. But the soul part was kind of huge.

"So," Clint said, trying to derail his own thoughts. "What do you mean it's more corporate?"

"I mean literally it's more corporate," Phil said, glancing up from his menu for a moment before flipping the page and returning his focus to finding something to eat. "After mass production became popular, we discovered that people will literally sell their souls to merchandise without even realizing it. So we went out with the fire and brimstone and in with the business practices, and we've gotten millions of souls a year from capitalism."

"You can't be serious," Clint snorted disbelievingly. "You believe me to expect that people sell their souls for stuff?"

"Well of course they don't," Phil said, like that was a completely ridiculous question. "But they dedicate their souls to brands so deeply that those brands gain possession of the soul. Haven't you ever heard people swear that their iPhone is the best thing in the world?"

"Hell owns Apple?" Clint asked, raising his eyebrows.

"Of course," Phil said, shrugging. "We also own Google, Microsoft, McDonald's and Wal-Mart and quite a few oil businesses. We've had more time than most to arrange it all, you see."

"So what, like the Universe is some grand metaphor for the evils of technology and materialism?"

"No, of course not," Phil scoffed. "Technology is very important for humans, it's how you evolve. And there's nothing wrong with materialism. It's just that humans form very deep attachments to things, and it's much easier to use those attachments in relations to things than it is to people. And anyway, it's not all about businesses either. It's also about beliefs."

At that point the waiter reappeared with two glasses of water and took their orders. Phil got a short stack of blueberry pancakes with a side of bacon and hash browns and a cup of coffee. Clint, who hadn't looked at the menu at all, picked the first thing he saw when he looked down, which turned out to be an avocado burger, and then waved off the offer of a drink. As soon as the waiter was gone, he rounded on Phil again.

"Beliefs like religion?" he asked, as if they hadn't been interrupted at all.

"Well, yes and no," Phil said, sipping from his water glass. "Religion is pretty exclusively their deal," He gestured vaguely upward. "We get some satanists, of course, but for the most part they've got that locked down pretty tightly. But I mean other beliefs, like politics."

"So, what, people who have specific affiliations are guaranteed to go to hell?" Clint asked.

"Well, no," Phil said, cooing happily as the waiter approached with a steaming mug of coffee. "It's not quite as easy as all that, unfortunately. It's mostly the people who are so passionate about certain subjects that they're willing to die for it, or kill for it, or dedicate their soul to it."

"So radicals," Clint said, and Phil beamed at him like he was proud and nodded.

"Exactly," he nodded. "And of course, they have to be committed to an idea that we put out there. We send people out to be politicians every few years."

"No way," Clint said, grinning and leaning closer to him.

"I'm serious," Phil assured him. "At least fifty percent of the American Congress is demons. Dick Cheney is one of ours."

"Bull shit!" Clint crowed in delight.

"Nope," Phil insisted, and he was grinning too. "You don't _really_ think Bush Jr. got elected twice on his own?"

"Phil," Clint said seriously, almost knocking his chair out from underneath him as he tilted it forward to look the demon seriously in the face. "Phil are you telling me that George W. Bush, the leader of the free world, sold his soul to the devil?"

"Now, Clint," Phil said, his voice taking on an admonishing tone. "That would be telling."

Clint spent the next few minutes until their food arrived trying to convince Phil to tell him which elected officials were demons and which ones were headed straight to hell, but Phil only answered him with enigmatic smiles, mild admonishments, and a few gentle reminders that Clint really had no room to judge.

Once their food arrived, there wasn't much room for talk, because Phil was utterly focused on his pancakes. He made happy little noises every time he took a bite, and several times offered his fork to Clint and wheedled at him to try some. Clint was mostly concerned with filling his stomach, because as soon as the smell of grilled meat had hit his nose, he'd realized that he was starving.

"So," Clint said, after he'd finished half of his burger and most of his fries. "If hell is some huge evil corporation pulling the strings on all these businesses, then why even bother with the Crossroads?"

"I like them," Phil shrugged, dabbing at his lips with a napkin. "We still pull in a good amount of souls, and it's something I've been doing for hundreds of years, so I stick with it."

"You like it?" Clint asked, drawing back from him and feeling his happy feelings evaporate.

"We provide a service," Phil said, seemingly not noticing Clint's change in disposition. "We give people what they want."

"And then you steal their souls," Clint reminded him, and Phil's eyes flashed red for a split second and he scowled.

"We do not _steal_," he bristled. "We trade. It's bartering, an exchange of good and services, and it is all completely legitimate. If a human finds their soul worth riches or talent _or their brother's life_, who am I to argue with them?"

"Barney was an abused ten-year-old boy who was terrified, and one of your demons took his soul in exchange for making an orphan of him," Clint growled back. How could he have forgotten who he was talking to? How could he have let himself be cheerful and friendly?

"I admit that what happened with Barney was inappropriate," Phil conceded. "Melinda should not have made a deal with a child, you're right. But there's nothing that can be done about that now. Your brother made a deal, and his soul has already been collected."

Clint flinched at that. He'd known that Barney had to be dead, because his deal had come up in 2003. But it was quite different to hear someone confirm it for him. They had thought, young and incredibly stupid, that twenty years was forever. Now, Barney was dead and Clint was due in just over nine years, and twenty years seemed like the blink of an eye.

"And me?" Clint asked. "I was seventeen. You don't think that was inappropriate?"

Phil paused, and Clint noticed that he didn't look angry anymore. He looked resigned more than anything, and he poked at the syrupy dregs of his pancakes when he answered.

"I don't usually make deals with anyone under the age of twenty," he said. "I made an exception for you."

Clint stared at him incredulously for a moment, wondering what about him could make a demon break his own rules. He'd been a grubby, malnourished, scared teenager who was afraid he was going to lose the only family he had left. What about that called for exceptions?

"Why?" he asked, and he hated the way his voice cracked just slightly.

Phil sighed and rubbed at his temples like he was getting a tension headache, though Clint wasn't really sure that demons even could get tension headaches. He took a long drink of his coffee and then looked at Clint, his blue eyes serious and so very old.

"Because in all of my time collecting souls at crossroads, you were the only person I'd ever met who asked for something for someone else."

Clint stared at him, stunned.

"That can't be right," Clint insisted, after a moment of thought. "You've never had anyone ask to save a family member before?"

"I've had that," Phil said. "But it's not the same. To an extent, we Crossroads demons can read the intentions behind a bargain. People who want fame usually want it because they're tired of feeling ignored or because they want everyone to love them. People who want money want it for specific reasons; financial security, material pleasures, that sort of thing. People who want to save people from death do so because they are terrified of being left alone, or of facing the world without that person."

"Yeah," Clint nodded. "And that would be me. Barney was my only family and I was afraid to lose him."

"You were," Phil said, nodding. "But that wasn't why you made the deal. You didn't trade your soul for Barney's life because you needed him."

Clint opened his mouth to interrupt, but stopped when Phil fixed him with a serious, earnest stare.

"You traded it simply because it would save him," Phil said. "Because trading your soul meant he got to live. And that is the most selfless thing I have ever seen."

"I don't know about that," Clint grumbled under his breath. Phil just smiled at him, in the way one might smile at a silly child who just didn't understand and said,

"I do."

_June 2006_

It was Clint's twenty-ninth birthday, and he was dying.

He'd known it had been a huge risk to run through the sewers with a gunshot wound in his thigh, but it had been his only option if he wanted to live. And even though he had no one and nothing and the other assassin he had been working and sleeping with for months had abandoned him and left him to die, Clint wanted to live.

So down into the sewers he'd gone. It had taken a lot out of him, to get away from their failed mission. They'd killed the mark, of course, but Clint had been tired and sloppy and he'd gotten them caught. Clint didn't really blame Natasha for leaving him behind, because he'd known one day she would. But the fact of the matter was, he had nowhere nearby that she didn't know about, and therefore nowhere safe to go.

When the adrenaline ran down and his leg started refusing to support his weight, he'd dragged himself into the back of an alleyway and laid down to gather his strength. The blood loss had made him pass out, and he was surprised that he'd woken up at all, but he'd somehow managed to force himself to get up and to a nearby fleabag motel, where the bored-looking desk clerk didn't ask any questions.

So he'd dragged himself onto the thin, lumpy mattress and started trying to accept that he was going to die. He could have called an ambulance, but that would mean questions he couldn't answer and people talking. If the people whose boss he'd killed didn't find him first, then he'd probably end up in prison.

Assuming that he didn't die from blood loss or infection, anyway.

So he laid shivering in the crappy little bed, fighting for every breath, his heart pounding in his ears, and he tried not to let himself cry. He wasn't afraid of dying, because he had no uncertainty about what came next, but he'd never felt so utterly alone in his life, and that was way worse.

He was so far gone that he didn't even realize that someone else had entered the room until he felt cool fingers running gently through his hair. He snapped back to attention, as much as his brain would let him, and realized that he'd almost just fallen into a sleep that he wouldn't wake up from.

"Tasha?" he asked blearily, trying to turn over and look at her. Maybe he'd made a mistake, and she hadn't abandoned him after all. Maybe she'd come back for him and found that he was already gone, and she'd been looking all over for him.

"I'm afraid not," a man's voice answered gently, holding his shoulder down to keep Clint from turning. He came around the front of the bed though and knelt so Clint could look him in the face.

"Phil," he said numbly. "Came for my soul?"

"No," Phil said, his face sympathetic and his voice gentle. "No, not yet. You've still got eight years left."

"But I'm dying," Clint protested. He didn't know why he found it so important that Phil knew that. He just needed someone to know.

"I know you are," Phil told him gently. "But it will be all right."

"I don't…" Clint started to say, confused. He was tired and cold, and he thought maybe his heart was going to beat out of his chest.

"I know," Phil said again, his voice gentle and soothing.

"Touch m' hair again?" Clint mumbled, because he missed the nice feeling. Phil smiled at him and started scratching his fingers gently over Clint's scalp, making him forget, for a moment, that he was shaking and couldn't stop.

"Shh, Clint, it's okay," Phil murmured, even though Clint didn't think he was making any noise.

"Wanna work with you," Clint said. "After, I wanna work with you. Give people what they want."

"Okay," Phil cooed, and then he pressed a cool, very gentle kiss to Clint's forehead. "I can make that happen, don't worry."

A soft, bright light suddenly appeared before him, and Clint flinched away from it, his eyes aching. He'd always heard that people saw a bright light when they died, but he'd never really believed it. Even so, he'd thought it would be a heaven thing. Dimly, he heard Phil speaking waspishly, and he tried really had to focus on what he was saying. It seemed important.

"Skye, where have you been, he's almost…"

"Shove the attitude," a female voice answered. "I don't work for you, and I'll be in a lot of trouble if anyone finds out that I'm doing this. You owe me big."

"Yes, all right, I owe you," Phil said. "Now will you just fix it? He's fading fast."

Clint felt gentle hands touch him, along his cheeks, chest, and then around his leg. He tried to open his eyes, but his eyelids just felt so heavy and he couldn't manage it. He could hear her talking, muttering things like "septic shock" and "blood loss", but he found that he missed most of her words.

The more she talked and touched him, though, the warmer and safer he felt, and soon he was drifting off to sleep.

_September 2008_

"You're going to die early if you keep going the way you're going."

Clint didn't jump at the unexpected voice, which was good for him since he was busy stitching up a knife gash in his side. Instead, he paused in the middle of his work to shoot Phil a sardonic look and ask,

"Really? Will I?"

"Humans generally do, when they get stabbed or shot badly enough," Phil answered, his voice betraying nothing.

"And yet, two years ago I was definitely about to die, and somehow I woke up in the morning perfectly healthy," Clint said, digging.

He didn't actually remember much past the alleyway. He certainly didn't remember getting a motel room, but that's where he was when he woke up the next morning, arguably in better health than he had been before he'd been shot.

"That is strange," Phil allowed, and his face remained a perfect blank slate when Clint glared at him.

He knew Phil had been there. He didn't remember much, but he remembered the feeling of his fingers sliding through Clint's sweat-slicked hair, and he remembered blinding white light that had made his eyes ache and burn.

"I know you did something," Clint accused him, scowling. "I know you saved my life. I just don't know why."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Phil told him bluntly. "I haven't seen you since that cafe in Los Angeles."

Clint wanted to argue more, but it was clear that Phil was unwilling to admit what he'd done. Even though Clint didn't understand, he knew there must be a reason, so he let it go.

"Okay, so," Clint said, raising his eyebrows. "What are you doing here?"

"I can't have dropped by just to talk to you?" Phil asked innocently.

"I mean, you can," Clint allowed. "But I don't think you did."

A small smirked slipped over Phil's face for just a quarter of a second, but Clint saw it. He saw most things.

"Well, Phil admitted. "You're right. I know someone who wants to meet you."

"To take out a contract with me, you mean?" Clint asked suspiciously. Somehow he didn't think that was what Phil meant, and he was a little thrown by and suspicious of the meddling.

"Not exactly," Phil said, frowning like he knew what Clint was thinking. "I gave her an address and a meeting place, and I told her I'd pass it along to you."

"Is she a demon?" Clint asked. Phil shook his head. "Then does she owe you her soul?" Another head shake.

"She's...a friend," Phil answered, the tone of his voice suggesting that maybe "friend" wasn't the right word. "You don't have to meet her, if you don't want. That's why I didn't tell her where to find you. But I hope you'll consider it. She can help you."

Phil offered him a piece of paper with an address and a time scribbled on it, and Clint nodded at him to set it on the table. He was supposed to be sewing himself up, after all. He returned carefully to his task, and they spent a few long moments in silence before Clint asked the question that had been nagging at him since he woke up in the motel room in Kiev.

"Why do you care?"

"Pardon?" Phil asked, surprised by the question.

"Why do you care? About me? Why do you keep showing up and helping me?"

Phil was quiet for a long few seconds, and then he sighed and said, "I don't know."

He was gone before Clint could ask him anything else.

LINE BREAK

The address belonged to a small coffee shop in Brooklyn, and the place was busy when Clint got there. He cased out the joint as he walked through it until he spotted a beautiful woman with brown hair seated at a small table in the corner, with her back to the wall, and two coffee cups on the table in front of her.

"Clint Barton, I presume?" she asked when he approached her.

"I think I'm at a disadvantage," Clint answered. "Because I don't know your name."

"I'm Maria Hill, with the Strategic Homeland…"

"With SHIELD?" Clint spat, feeling the burn of betrayal in the pit of his stomach as he backed away from her. It was no use now, probably. They'd have people waiting outside to catch him if he ran.

SHIELD had been hunting him down for years because he'd gotten on their radar in a bad way with some of his kills. He'd managed to evade them, mostly, and now he'd walked right into the tap like an idiot. All because Phil had asked him to.

"We're not here to take you out, Mr. Barton," she answered calmly, not getting up. Clint noticed she left both of her hands firmly on the tabletop where he could see them, but just because she wasn't reaching for a weapon didn't mean she wasn't deadly.

"I'm not sure I believe you," Clint spat, wondering if he had any chance of killing her before someone else killed him first.

"You'd be a waste of skill dead," she said, sipping her coffee and fixing him with a calculating stare. "I want to recruit you, you'd be an asset to our organization."

"And why would I want to do that?" Clint demanded.

"Well, for one, you wouldn't have to move cities every week. You'd have a stationary place to come back to, to call home. You'd have a steady income, and your choice of missions. Not to mention the great healthcare plan."

Clint had to admit the idea sounded extremely tempting, but it also sounded too good to be true. He'd been afraid for his life every minute of every day for six years, and part of that fear was due to the organization that now apparently wanted him to join them. The feeling of safety was something he craved, but not something he was sure he could actually achieve.

"I understand that you don't trust me," Maria said. "But don't you trust Phil?"

He shouldn't trust Phil. Objectively, it was an absolutely stupid thing to do, to trust the demon who'd bought his soul. But he did. He couldn't really explain why or how, but he did. If Phil thought SHIELD would be good for him, then it probably would be, even though this whole meeting felt like a betrayal. Phil wouldn't have sent him right into the snake pit without knowing that it would be okay.

He pulled out the empty chair and sat down, willing at least to hear her out. If he didn't like what she had to said, well. He'd figure that out when he got there.

_April 2010_

"You really have no idea how to keep your head down, do you?"

Clint was turning with his gun up before the sentence finished, but he faltered when he saw Phil, looking the same as always, leaning casually against the wall. Clint heaved a sigh and holstered his gun, glancing at Natasha where she was asleep on the bed. She was curled up in a tight ball with her back pressed against the wall, defensive even in sleep.

"I couldn't kill her," Clint sighed.

"So instead you decided to adopt her like a stray puppy?" Phil demanded, and for the first time Clint realized that he was livid.

"Listen, the Widow and I have a long history," Clint told him. "I don't expect you to understand. She's the most dangerous and talented person I've ever met in my life, and she waltzed right in front of my scope. She _knew_ I was there. She wanted me to shoot her!"

"Then you should have," Phil growled at him. "Now you've got SHIELD on your ass again, is this what you want?"

"If that's what it takes!" Clint retorted, keeping his voice low. "She was just like I was two years ago, Phil. Terrified, tired, and always on high alert, just about ready to give up. I couldn't just leave her to die!"

"Why not?" Phil demanded. "She left you to die!"

Clint flinched and then crossed his arms over his chest. It stung, but he knew Phil was right.

"I thought you didn't know anything about that?" he asked petulantly, rather than answering Phil's question.

"I don't," Phil said, looking away. He released a deep breath, more like a frustrated sigh than anything and then looking at Clint imploringly. "I just don't understand why you'd risk yourself to save her."

"You gave me a second chance by connecting me with SHIELD. I just thought that I could do the same for her. Her life's been really rough. She deserves a second chance."

He waited quietly while Phil studied his face with piercing eyes. Clint didn't know what it was he was looking for, but he stayed still and accepted the scrutiny all the same. Finally, his face softened a bit, looking somewhat sad and understanding.

"You love her," he said, and Clint hesitated, thinking about that.

"I thought I did," he answered. "Tasha was the only stable point in my life for a few years, and I latched on to that. I thought that I loved her and that she loved me and that we'd spend the rest of our lives together like assassin Bonnie and Clyde. And then she left me, and I wasn't actually that surprised about it."

The expression on Phil's face was one Clint didn't really understand, but he was staring at Clint with rapt attention, like this was the most important thing anyone had ever said. It was a little unnerving, and Clint found himself smiling nervously at the undivided attention.

"She left me and I thought I was going to die, and then I was alone again. I realized that what we had wasn't healthy and it wasn't some great epic love. It was two broken people clinging to the only hand holds they could find. It was painful and harmful, and Tasha knew that, and I think I knew that too, even though I didn't want to admit it. So no, I don't love her. Not like that. But she understands me in ways that no one else ever could, and I think she deserves to be given an opportunity to save herself."

Phil didn't respond for about a minute, and the silence around them was ringing, making Clint's skin feel itchy. When it all grew to be too much, he shrugged uncomfortably and said,

"So yeah, that's...mmmf"

He made a little choked noise when Phil suddenly seized him by the shoulders and pulled him close to kiss him on the mouth. The heat of Phil's skin was almost too much, but Clint found himself clinging to the front of Phil's suit rather than pulling away to escape it. He kissed back with everything he had, his insides flooding with confused feelings of attraction, foreboding, lust, and a whole slew of other emotions that he really shouldn't have been able to feel all at the same time.

Phil pulled away rather suddenly, his face gone blank, and Clint was somewhat relieved. It was clear that neither of them really knew what they were supposed to do with their feelings. He didn't even protest when Phil disappeared on the spot, leaving his skin feeling cold where Phil had touched him.

He sighed, raked his fingers through his hair, and practically jumped out of his skin when he turned around and saw that Natasha was sitting up, completely awake. He didn't know why he was so surprised. She'd probably woken up the moment Phil had entered the room, if she'd ever actually been asleep at all.

She sat with her knees pulled up to her chest, her chin resting atop them. Her green eyes were narrowed contemplatively at him, and he wondered what part of that conversation she was going to ask him about.

"Do you know what he is?" she asked, and Clint almost snorted. It figured she would ask the questions that had nothing to do with her, their relationship, or any feelings they may or may not have had for each other.

"Yeah, I know what he is," Clint sighed, and then since it was apparently honesty hour, he said, "I owe him my soul."

Even though her facial expression didn't change at all, he could tell that she was surprised by that revelation. He flopped down onto the bed on his stomach, kicking his feet up behind him, and turned his head so he could look up at her. He knew she was probably dying to ask, but she didn't. Instead, she just nodded.

"You have feelings for him," she said instead. It wasn't a question, but Clint tried to answer it anyway.

"Yeah. No. I mean, I guess? I trust him." Clint knew that fumbling over his answer wasn't really doing him any favors, so he just sighed. "I really don't know. I've always found him attractive. For a long time I hated him, because I felt like he took advantage of me. But he's never done anything but help me, really. I only see him once every few years, but every time I do he helps me, or tries to. He saved my life, that time you left me. He won't admit it, but I know it had to be him, because I should have died."

Natasha didn't look at all guilty at the reminder that she'd left him to die, and he didn't really care that she didn't. He hadn't brought it up to make her feel bad, and he knew that Natasha's first loyalty was to herself. He didn't really blame her for that. It's how people like them stayed alive, after all. Clint had always been a little too soft for the job.

"I'm fond of him," Clint admitted finally. "I'm attracted to him, and it was really nice to kiss him. But I don't really know what the means. It's…"

"Complicated," Natasha said knowingly, and Clint wrinkled his nose, but nodded all the same.

"Yeah," he said. "Complicated."

"Well, _Ptichka_," she said, calling him the same pet name she used to call him years ago, as if nothing had changed. "You flail around without cause a lot, but I know that you always manage to make it work out somehow. The same will happen with this."

Clint wasn't so sure that she was right about that, but he didn't dare tell her that. Instead, he purred as she started scratching her nails lightly against his scalp, and he tried not to worry about the multitude of troubles he'd made for himself.

_May 2010_

Clint spent almost a month being detained after he came back to SHIELD with Natasha. He suspected that Director Hill had only let him out after that short of a time because she was pleased that he'd actually managed to talk the Black Widow over to their side.

He'd spent most of the time in incarceration sleeping, being interrogated, or, when he was ready to climb the walls from lack of movement, seeing how many push ups or sit ups he could do before he couldn't lift his own body weight anymore.

He'd been released early that morning, though Natasha was still under heavy guard, and the first thing he'd done was head to the range to shoot his bow until his arms started shaking with the strain. He'd gone to the cafeteria after that and marveled at the novelty of getting to choose what to eat. Finally, though, he retreated to his room so that he could spend some time alone without the lurking presence of a guard nearby.

Of course, when he opened the door, he found Phil sitting on his bed, straightening the cuffs of his suit even though they looked perfectly arranged. He snapped the door shut behind him and triggered the locks, and then he realized that he didn't know what to say.

"I wasn't sure you'd be coming back," he said, finally, when it appeared that Phil didn't know what to say either.

"I assumed, since you and your friend allowed SHIELD to detain you and didn't try to escape, that you were planning to get back in Maria's good graces," Phil explained apologetically. "I didn't think appearing in your high security cell would be the best plan of action."

"You were probably right about that," Clint said, and the conversation stalled into silence. Clint loitered by the door for a few seconds and then decided that he didn't want to be standing over Phil if they were going to have the conversation that he expected they were going to have.

He crossed over to the desk chair situated across from the bed and sat down on it, lacing his fingers together and tucking them between his knees. Phil looked like he was trying to gather his thoughts, so Clint waited until he was ready.

"What happened between us last time," he started awkwardly, and Clint had to fight a smile. "It was...I enjoyed it. A lot. But it was very inappropriate, from a professional standpoint. Our whole relationship has been, really. I shouldn't have come to see you before it was time to collect your soul, really."

"But you did," Clint prompted, and Phil nodded thoughtfully.

"I did," He agreed. "I was fascinated by you and your selflessness, and I couldn't put you out of my head. I thought I'd go see you and get you out of my system, but honestly seeing you as a grown man made it worse. You were...are...very attractive." His cheeks reddened with his admission and he looked down at the floor instead of at Clint's face, and Clint couldn't help but grin.

"So you thought I was interesting, and then you thought I was cute," Clint recounted. "I've always found you attractive you know. I didn't always like you, obviously, but...that's changed. A lot."

Phil's head snapped up, and the look on his face could only be described as hopeful, but also pained.

"I knew you didn't hate me anymore," he admitted. "But I never thought you'd…"

"I do," Clint assured him, scooting his chair closer to the bed so that their knees bumped. "I really do." He leaned close, giving Phil plenty of time to stop him if he wanted to. When Phil didn't, he kissed him, a little harder than he meant to. It made Phil huff out a surprised breath, though, and his hands came up to cradle Clint's face and guide him helpfully. Because Phil was so very helpful.

Their kisses were slow and sweet and mostly dry, with little sweeps of tongue only every once in a while. It was really nice, and Clint was getting ready to ditch the chair and clamber into Phil's lap when he pulled away, looking contrite.

"What's wrong?" Clint asked, frowning.

"This is," Phil sighed. "I wasn't supposed to come here and kiss you, even though there is nothing else I'd rather do."

Clint leaned back, unsure if he was supposed to be offended or insulted, so he just waited for Phil to explain it to him. He'd decide how he felt about it later, when his brain was a little less fogged with pleasure and arousal.

"Nick found out about me arranging to have your life saved," he sighed, and Clint grinned triumphantly.

"I knew it!" he exclaimed. "What do you mean, arranged?"

"My power is limited," Phil said. "I can only save a life if I get a soul in trade for it, so I had to call in a favor from an angel friend of mine. The point is, that Nick found out about it, and he's not happy. He thinks we've gotten too close, and that my judgment is clouded."

"How did he find out?" Clint demanded, wondering guiltily if it was because of all the times he'd insisted on talking and asking about it.

"I don't know," Phil sighed. "But he's not wrong. I've fallen in love with you and it has clouded my judgment. I saved your life because I couldn't bear to take away what few years you had left. I knew how cheated of life you already felt."

It was a lot to take in, but Clint's brain chose to focus on just the one thing.

"You love me?" he asked, and he couldn't believe how good that felt. Right down to his core, it felt like warmth and reassurance and happiness.

"Yes," Phil answered. "I've known for a long time, but I never thought anything could come of it. But last time I saw you, I guess I just snapped because I was so relieved to hear that you didn't love someone else."

"Wow," Clint muttered, and he found that he couldn't look away from Phil's face. "I had a lot of time, while I was locked up. To think about you and what you mean to me. I know I trust you. I trust you with my life, and to do right by me. And at this point, I even trust you with my soul. I like talking to you, when you're around, and even when you're driving me crazy I'd rather you be here than not. If that's not love, then I don't know what is."

"Yeah?" Phil asked, his face hopeful.

"Yeah," Clint said, letting out a shuddering breath. "I love you."

Phil pulled him close, burying his face in Clint's neck, and all Clint could do was hold on tightly. He knew there was something that Phil hadn't told him yet, and he suspected that he wouldn't like it. Surely enough, after a few minutes of clinging and quick, deep kisses, Phil pulled away again.

"I came here to tell you that this is the last time we can see each other," Phil told him, his words blunt and quick like he had to force them out.

Clint's happiness evaporated in his chest, but he wasn't as shocked as Phil might have expected. He'd suspected that Phil was going to tell him something like this.

"Ever?" he asked, his voice cracking embarrassingly with emotion.

"No, no," Phil assured him quickly, his hands framing Clint's face gently. He pressed a quick kiss to Clint's forehead. "Just until I come for your soul. Nick wouldn't be that cruel. Not to me, at least."

"So...four years?" Clint asked. "Is this supposed to make me look forward to my death?"

"No, I don't think so," Phil said, a smile smile spreading across his face. "It's meant as a punishment for me, really. I've overstepped my bounds, and I have to pay for that. This is not your fault, and I don't want or expect you to spend the last four years of your life waiting for it to end. Enjoy it, Clint. When you're done, I'll be waiting for you. If this is what you still want."

"It will be," Clint assured him.

"Well, I hope so," Phil said, giving him another quick peck on the lips. Clint chased him when he pulled back, kissing him longer, deeper, pressing as much feeling into it as he knew how. If this was their last kiss for four years, it better be a great one.

"I have to go," Phil said reluctantly when they pulled apart. "Have a great life, Clint Barton."

Clint's response was heard only by empty air.

_July 2014_

Clint Barton was thirty-seven years old, and he was dying.

He was pretty sure it was going to stick this time, since he'd made an ill-advised deal that very same day twenty years ago. The date hadn't really occurred to him when he and Natasha had received their briefing packets from Sitwell. It was just another mission, and another bad man running an international weapons ring who needed to be put in the ground.

He'd known that he was getting close, of course, because how could he not? But he hadn't realized until he felt the bullets piercing his chest that it was _the_ day. As he laid on the ground and stared up at the blue sky, he wondered how something that had haunted him for most of his life could sneak up on him so easily.

He laughed, even though it wasn't really funny, and then winced from the pain and the taste of blood in his mouth. Dying hurt a lot more than he remembered. Not that he really remembered the other time all that well.

He hadn't realized that Natasha was at his side until she leaned her face over his, barking at him in Russian, even though she knew his Russian was shit. Her face was white and her eyes had that desperate look that she got some times, and he suddenly felt guilty. He hadn't meant to force her to complete the mission alone.

He grunted when she grabbed him under the arms and started to drag him behind the cover of a car. Natasha was unnaturally strong, but Clint was heavy and she was trying not to jostle him too much, so it was slow going. She was wasting her time and needlessly risking her own life. She'd changed a lot, over the the past four years.

"Nat," He groaned as pain lanced through him at her movements. "Nat, stop."

"If I don't get you to cover…" she started, not giving up.

"I'm gonna die, Nat," he told her, and he was surprised how at peace he was with that idea. It wasn't like there was anything he could do to stop it, and he'd had a long time to get used to the idea. "I've got blood in my lungs." He coughed then, spitting up a mouthful of blood as if to prove it. "And my time's up. Soul's due today."

Natasha said something else, angrily and in Russian, and then popped up quickly to fire a few shots over the roof of the car. Clint heard a few grunts and a couple bodies hit the ground, and he grinned.

"You asshole," she said. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Slipped my mind, I guess," Clint said, which was only half true. He coughed again, which really hurt, and almost choked on the blood in his mouth until Natasha gently turned his face to the side so he could spit it out. "It's okay, Nat. You go ahead and get out of here while you can, regroup with Jasper."

"You are stupid and irresponsible and I am so angry with you," she hissed at him, and then she kissed him on the forehead, took his back-up gun from his thigh holster, and ducked out from behind the car shooting. He watched her go, hoping she'd make it out safely.

He didn't even realize that he'd died until he turned his head and saw a grinning Phil waiting for him, reaching down to help pull him to his feet.

Clint took his hand.


End file.
